


Rebirth

by Azurehue22



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Mercy - Freeform, Overwatch - Freeform, Sombra - Freeform, mccree - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-15 02:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9214799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azurehue22/pseuds/Azurehue22
Summary: McCree receives the recall notice a town in the boonies of Arizona, along with a painful reminder of Mercy.





	1. Chapter 1

The dust coated him in a layer of grime that never fully came out of the skin. It sat there, rubbing you raw, getting in your eyes, forever. Not even a bath or shower could fully purge it. The only thing that got rid of it was time.

Time.

It was seemingly endless when you’re young, but at thirty-seven, McCree was starting to feel the years creep up on him like a bad case of mold. He shook his head, sending another layer of dust to the floor, as the sandstorm outside raged and the television crackled and popped. The bar was empty; it was just him and the barkeep, who was watching the struggling television, banging his fist on it in a feeble attempt to gather more signal.

“You know, most televisions these days are digital.” He lit up a cigar, eyeing the balding man, who turned to look at him with a scowl.  
“It is digital!” McCree doubted that.  
“Somethings wrong on their end! I pay good money for that package.” Noticing McCree had pushed his empty glass forward, he grabbed the bottle of whiskey from behind the bar and slammed it in front of him.  
“Help yourself, I’m calling the company.” He stomped off, leaving McCree in a comfortable silence. Only the raging of the sandstorm and the light crackles of static could be heard.

He’d spent so much of his last ten years as a wanderer; never really staying in one place too long, trying to outrun memories before they caught up to him. He did odd jobs here and there; though he’d simply call himself a vigilante. It wasn’t paying work, but rewards were sometimes good. He poured himself a finger of whiskey, lifting the glass to his lips, when the TV suddenly crackled to life. He smirked. So the old man finally got it to work, eh? He took a drag of his cigar, watching as the TV broke out in a fanfare. The football game that had been on was replaced by a haggard looking man, his face set in a grim line.

“Breaking News. This is Kev Donald, live from KDWB in Phoenix. We’ve received a report of an Overwatch Recall.” McCree froze, staring at the TV. Overwatch Recall? It was illegal; who could have done it? He stared as the man launched into a spiel about the illicit nature of the recall, and the suspects of who it could have been. Faces and names launched across the screen, a few of whom he recognized. A few of whom caused him discomfort. A few that caused outright pain.

“Lena Oxton, otherwise known as Tracer, was thought to have been sighted at assassination of celebrated Omnic Monk; Mondatta.” It wasn’t her. It couldn’t have been her. Christ, she had a life. She wouldn’t throw it away.

“Gabriel Reyes…” A massive knot formed in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t seen his old mentor in years and years; last he’d known, he’d been picked for an experiment. Jesse remembered telling him it was a bad idea. Now…he was someone else entirely.

“Of course, Jack Morrison is presumed dead…” Another picture, this time of Jack with blondhair and hopeful expression. McCree took another drag; the knot in his stomach was still tight. No. He was dead. That was the end of it.

“Angela Ziegler, noted surgeon and battlefield medic.” There it was. The pain. His heart felt like a vice had shut on it, squeezing it tight. Her beautiful face filled the grainy screen for a moment. He remembered her voice, the soft feel of her skin, the meals they shared, the-.

“Oi. You gonna pay? I’m closing soon. No use stayin’ here with this storm about.” McCree was broken from his reverie by the barkeep, who dragged a damp cloth over his face.

“Yeah, here.” He tossed a few bills on the counter, pushing his glass up. Wrapping his poncho around his face and neck, he rushed into the storm.  
It was welcome relief from the memories that had boiled to the surface, but it didn’t stop them from coming; like the steady drip of a leaky faucet, they were. Still, he battled onward, into the Arizona sandstorm, trying his best to find his way back to the room he was staying in for the night. In front of him cars beeped mournfully, and the wind howled.

When he finally made his way back to his room, the sun had finally set, and candle that lit the front entrance was nearly a stub. It was one of those old inns you see out west; tiny foyer, small ancient computer that was never turned on. Book to sign your name, cash box next to it. He dragged his way up the steps, around and around, until he found his room after backtracking twice.

The rooms in the inn were all alike. Single bed, dingy curtains, tiny bathroom with low pressure shower. No tub. He peeled his poncho off him; it was heavy with what felt like several pounds of sand and grime. Tossing it to the floor, he crossed the room to a bag he carried his supplies in. He already heard the incessant beeping. Rummaging through boxes of ammo and clothes he found it.

A badge, of sorts. It wasn’t meant to be worn. They’d given it to him when he’d been thrown into Blackwatch all those years ago.

“Keep it on you at all times, McCree.” He heard Reyes voice in his ears.  
“It’s our only way of keeping in contact. We don’t use phones here.” He balls his hand into a fist, letting the hard edges cut into his hand, burning the memories. It was beeping, a shrill scream that drummed into ears. He looked at the screen, which had held so many notes of frustration, anger, fury, and mission briefings in its heyday. All it said now was “Recall.” He gazed at it for a moment, before snapping the badge in two. It broke under his hands, sending out sparks and one last mournful beep. He tossed it aside. He lit up a cigar, breathing deeply, eyeing the shards.

He could have hit accept. It would have been easy. He could have even replied, asking “Who in God’s name is this?”

He couldn’t. It could be a trap. It could be any number of things, but he wasn’t about to get caught in this shit hole of a town, just to settle his innate curiosity. Besides; Overwatch was gone. It was in the past. He had to move on. Had to move on from her.  
He laid back on the sheets, letting ash fall onto his cheeks. The world had gone to complete shit since the shutdown. Not that he cared much; disarray made his paychecks. He lived off chaos; that’s what a merc was. He took another long drag.

Still, Overwatch had been full of bleeding hearts. Filled with people that really did want to make the world a better place, instead of trying to line their own pockets. McCree was in between them, really. He hated to see innocent people suffer but had no problems toeing the law if it meant getting what he wanted. What he needed.

He groaned in frustration, stubbing the cigar out and getting up, shaking more dust from his hair. Time for a shower, and a decent night’s rest. He turned the TV on, slapping the ancient thing upside the casing to get it to work as he passed. He was about to enter the bathroom when a familiar voice came on. He turned so quickly he cricked his neck, staring at the TV.

“Angela…” He whispered. She was on, speaking about the recent events. Her hair shimmered in the dark street lamps and flashes as cameras flickered. She was in her battle armor; wings blaring, her staff held in front of her.

“Dr. Ziegler, it’s well known you have strong ties to Overwatch, what are your thoughts on the recent recall?” One reporter asked.  
“No comment.” He saw her jaw set. Images flashed by of him nibbling that same jaw while on top of her, brushing his thumb across it, kissing it. He blinked, forcing them down.  
“Dr. Ziegler, is it true your team has been working on continuing the robotics you were working on in Overwatch? Could this have been the reason for the attack?”

Attack? McCree looked around the screen in alarm, trying to find the ticker tape; but it was buried in the low resolution screen.

“You know full well I cannot divulge such information.” She prodded the reporter.  
“Now let me through or I’ll have security remove you.” The first mic moved out of her way, although a second barred her path.

“Just one more question, Doctor, please. It will only take a second.” Angela moved her face towards someone off screen. McCree stared at it; it had been so long since he’d looked at her in person. All he had of her were memories. She had aged somewhat; though the years had been kind to her. She was just as beautiful as he remembered.

“What.” She responded, her tone clipped and her eyes angry. He remembered that look. That’s the look he got when he joked around too much during clinic visits.

“Is everyone alright? Did the explosion injure anyone? No one here has any information and I-.”  
“We have…thirteen confirmed casualties, and twenty-six more injured.” Angela breathed deep, her eyes closed.  
“Oh…oh Doctor, I am so sorry.”  
“Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She pushed her way off screen, and the news flickered back to the Phoenix office.

“That was Dr. Angela Ziegler from the scene of Geneva Mercy Hospital, now in ruins after a disgusting, cowardly attack.” The news anchors anger was only barely concealed. Still in shock at seeing Angela, McCree had nearly forgotten about his planned shower. All of him wanted to run to Switzerland, to find out what happened first hand.

The logical, mature side of him stamped out the flames of the outburst before it could show. He couldn’t go running. Not yet anyways. He had business to take care of here, in Arizona. Angela was fine; she could take care of herself, and the last thing she needed was to see him.

_“Running off, are you?” Footsteps behind him, a soft voice like an angel. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat more painful the last. He didn’t want this to happen. He didn’t want to have to say goodbye.”_  
“Angie…”  
“No. It’s Doctor Ziegler.” Her eyes were fire. Heavenly fire.  
“I didn’t want…I just…” He stammered. She approached him, an accusatory finger waving in his face.  
“You thought you could slip off in the middle of the night? While hell caves in around us? You were a snake when they picked you up and you’re a snake now!” She spat. The words stung like so many scorpions, digging deep. Angry, he grabbed her wrist.  
“You don’t know the half of it, Angela. Overwatch is coming apart.”  
“Let me go!” She wrenched out of his grip. “You don’t think I know that?” She hissed.  
“Everyday, I hear people talk. I hear stories. Whispers. I just didn’t think you’d run out on us. After all we’ve done for you.”  
“I ain’t running out on anyone. This is for the best. You don’t need me around.”  
“You’re running out on me!” He realized her anger was much more personal. She wasn’t just angry at him leaving Overwatch, she was angry at him leaving her.  
“Angie, please.” He wanted to embrace her, hold her in his arms one last time, but he knew he couldn’t do it. Shouldn’t do it.  
“I told you-.”  
“I’m callin ya Angie, Angie.” He attempted a smile.  
“I don’t want to leave you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. That…a beautiful treasure such as yourself could even look twice at me is a gift.”  
“Then why leave?” Her eyes shone with tears.  
“To protect you. Blackwatch is going to be the first thing purged; you don’t think they’re going to drag you in as well?” Her expression told him that she hadn’t thought of that.  
“I’ll never forget ya, Angela.” He tipped his hat.  
“Never.” 

He ran a hand over his face as the memory flooded past him. She would hate him. No, it was better to get the sand off his skin, at least attempt sleep, and figure out what to do tomorrow. Still, curiosity kept him at the TV as the news blared on.

“Yeah, for those just tuning in…there been a horrible tragedy at the Geneva Mercy Hospital. Massive explosion. Bodies are still being counted; Dr. Ziegler seemed to have been wrong. We’re getting accounts of twenty-five dead and-.” McCree turned away, peeling off his clothes and sighing.

So much death. So much destruction. When would humans get their act together and cut it out? He snorted, turning on the water. It came out in a miserable thin sheet. His job, his life, his everything depended on death. Without it, he’d be nothing. As long as men like him existed, humanity would be doomed to fail.

It was just the way it is.


	2. Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercy comes to terms with the Terrorist Attack, as well as recollects some painful memories

“Doctor, you need to get some rest.”  
“You’ll fall apart if you don’t get enough sleep. You know that!” Voices swam around her, filled her ears like sea water, mudding her thoughts. Finally, she slammed her fist on the desk.  
  
                “Enough! I want you all to leave… I’ll rest whenever I damn well please.” They stared at her, open mouthed at her outburst. The day’s events had turned them all into monsters. One by one, they filtered out of the makeshift tent they had set up for survivors. Mercy was attending to them all, of course, uncaring of her own injuries. Her head was swimming with lack of sleep and pent of anxiety, and through it all, the beeping, unending beeping of her Overwatch badge thrummed through her mind.  
  
The recall had scared her. Who had pressed that button? Who had the nerve, the cheek? Overwatch had been shut down for a reason; there was zero reason to bring it back.  


She sighed, hearing the shouts outside her tent, the groans and moans of people inside it. Her hands were dry from all the washes they had been given, and her head… oh how her head ached. Her hands shook as they reached for the pain killers; only to spill them over the makeshift desk.  
                “Doctor Ziegler…” She shut her eyes, willing whomever it was to just go away.  
“I have stated I am not to be disturbed. These people need rest.”  
                “They are resting. It is you who needs rest.” A soft hand on her shoulder, and she turned. The face of her assistant; a blossoming young girl named Julia Stevens met her eyes.  
                “These people will be alright; but if you don’t at least try to sleep your body will shut down. You know this as well as I do.” Angela shook her head.  
                “I…” She willed the tears back, nodding smartly at her assistant.  
“Julia, I leave them in your expert care.” The girl beamed.  
                “You can find me in the rest tent. Do not hesitate if something goes wrong.”  
  
  
It had been a long, horrible day, filled with blood and screams and terror. She had been in the lower stories when the explosion caved in the building. It had been a deafening roar of thunder, followed by the creak and groan of steel beams caving in under the weight they once carried so well. People ran, screaming as the ceiling fell, and Angela had tried her best to remain calm, help the injured.  
  
It reminded her of being back on the battlefield; hearing the gunfire and tortured shouts, commands being bellowed by supervisors. Bullets whizzing past her ear, and the echoing explosions of shells as they burst before her eyes.

She shivered, paying no heed to the people that asked her questions as she made her way to the tent. As she surveyed the wreckage of the hospital that she had once called home, she realized she had been wrong about some things.  
  
Overwatch was needed. This… this was a tragedy. A sick, disgusting tragedy. In all her years as a battlefield medic, the targets had always been military installations. Never had she seen a hospital targeted. This had been an act of callous violence so inhumane it staggered her.  
  
She stumbled, her tired, aching feet giving out as she entered the tent. Inside, people were dozing, their sleep interrupted by shouts or mumbles. She peeled off her battlesuit, though she kept her staff close by her side. She fell on a cot, rubbing her eyes and yawning.  
  
More than anything right now, she wanted Jesse. She hadn’t thought about him… well, no, she was lying to herself. She thought of him every day, but the longing was particularly bad right now. Laying down on the cot and pulling a blanket over herself, she saw him in her mind’s eye, joking around as they prepared for bed.  
  
  
  
                _“Jesse, quit joking around and get to bed.” She slapped him on the ass with a towel. He yelped, hands flying to his backside._  
                “Angie…” He grabbed the towel she had around her body, tugging it free. It fell around her ankles, leaving her naked in front of him.  
                “Jesse!” She made to grab it, but she felt his fingers beneath her chin, tugging her up. She looked at him, gazing into eyes that had enticed her the moment she saw them.  
                “Just sleep naked tonight, Angie.” His voice was a soft purr, but there was nothing sexual about it. She embraced him, smacking her bare skin against his, kissing him firmly.  
                “As long as you do the same, my dear Jesse.” He grinned suddenly, lifting her up and tossing her on the bed. She shrieked, laughing as he rolled on top of her, kissing her furiously. His lips moved from hers down to her chin, her neck, her shoulders.  
  
“I’ll never stop craving nights like these.” He murmured against her breasts. He took a firm nipple into his mouth, his eyes never leaving hers, and sucked gently. She moaned, her head rolling back. She craved him inside of her, but just as he started to move his lips down towards her willing sex, he stopped. His breath was in her ear, a hand slipping beneath her body and pulling her into him.  
                “I thought…” She turned to face him, her eyes wide with surprise. Surely he wanted her.  
“I do want it, but I’m tired and can’t give you my best.” He kissed her shoulder, nibbling gently.  
                “And oh do you deserve the best, darlin.” He reached a hand over, turning off the light. She curled into him, breathing him in.  
  
“I love you, my little cowboy.” She purred. She felt him chuckle.  
                “Nothin’ little about me. I love you too, my angel.”  
“And I am no angel. You’ve made sure of that.” 

Fire was all around her. Her lungs ached from breathing it in. Still, she ran, and ran, until she heard names calling out hers.  
                “Mercy! Mercy!”  
“Mercy!” A choking voice, male, met her ears. She skidded in the desert sand next to the smoldering wreck of an airplane.  
                “Jesse, my love, please, hold on!” She breathed, her face close to his. He was, thankfully, mostly unharmed towards his midsection, but his arm was pinned under the wing of the plane.  
                “Angie…” His eyes met hers; he was delirious from smoke inhalation and dehydration; how long was he out here?  
                “Just hang on, we’ll get you out of here.” She bent down, kissing him. She heard a click behind her; the sound of a gun cocking. She froze, and Jesse disappeared, replaced by unforgiving whiteness.  
                 
“Mercy? That’s what they call you? Is what you helped do to me, Mercy?” An unforgiving laugh, a voice that sounded as if made of smoke. She turned, and came face to face with a mask.  
                “Who… who are you?” She tried to back away, but found a wall behind her, pinning her in place.  
“I’m someone you thought you knew well. Someone that kept you safe all those years.” The figure was wrapped in a black cloak. He moved a gloved hand to his mask, and pulled away.  
                 
  
She screamed and woke with a start. The world around her was solid; the grass beneath her feet definitely there, and Jesse was hopefully thousands of miles away. Reaper was… Reaper was nowhere to be seen. She breathed a sigh of relief. It was just a dream. She buried her head in her hands, trying to push back tears.  
  
The world had quietened some. It seemed to be very early in the morning, based on the chill. She pulled her blanket more tightly around her. The rest had done her some good; she felt much clearer headed than before. Deciding that she couldn’t get back to sleep even if she tried, she pulled on a lab coat, laced up her shoes, grabbed her staff, and headed back to the surgeon’s tent.  
  
Julia was dozing in a chair, though all the patients were stable and well taken care off. When Angela entered, she started, standing up straight.  
                “Dr! They’re all doing great!”  
“I can see that, Ms. Stevens, thank you.”  
                “Did you get some rest?”  
“Some.” She tossed a smile to the girl, who beamed. Her expression hardened some, and she looked around for eavesdroppers.  
                 
  
                “Someone came in the tent, looking for you. Looked to be a journalist; I sent him away.” Angela was busy changing the bandages on a woman, and looked up.  
                “And? What did he want?”  
“He wanted answers on the Overwatch Recall.” Angela sighed.  
                “As if I could give him answers, Julia. Honestly, these people are going to drive me insane. I’m not even pro-Overwatch; it was shut down for a reason.”  
  
Julia seemed to knot her hands in her coat, looking at Angela with a strained expression.  
                “I am curious… why did it get shut down?” She looked up at her assistant.  
“Corruption, mostly. Pig-headedness.”  
                “You knew the higher ups, right? Commander Morrison?” She seemed more eager. Her eyes shone with curiosity that Angela knew hers once held.  
                “I… I did. But that was years ago. Things have changed.” She clucked her tongue.  
“You should rest, Ms. Stevens. I’m quite fine.” Her assistant’s hopeful smile vanished, and she nodded, ducking out the tent. Angela breathed a sigh of relief. She hated being asked about the old days; she didn’t want to remember the faces she had counted among close friends, even family.

  
                “So many dead. So many lost…” She thought, whispering aloud. Her heart gave an awful pang as Jesse’s face flitted across her memory. Such a rascal; someone who had annoyed her to no end but managed to worm his way into her heart. More pangs, softer this time, as Jack, Ana, and Gabe ran through. She still had a picture of them somewhere.  
                Torbjörn, Reinhardt. They had been like uncles to her. Where were they now? Reinhardt was no doubt in Germany, indulging in a good retirement… or completely the opposite, fighting the good fight. He was never one to accept that Overwatch had fallen. Torbjörn was no doubt still building, still tinkering.  
  
She moved to a patient who, upon moving the blankets, had a cybernetic lower torso. She put a hand to her throat in alarm, as Genji Shimada broken body entered her memory. People had said she had done something that would go down in history as the single greatest lifesaving maneuver, but all she felt was she had gone too far to save a life that didn’t want to be saved.  
  
Genji had left Overwatch shortly after helping them dismantle his family. She had never heard from him; she knew he hated her, no matter the kind words he had attempted to say. He was more machine that human, and who could live with that?

  
  
Footsteps. Angela started, turning around, covering the man with the blanket. Someone entered, a tall, black man with a kind face, though it was presently set in a grim line. She looked puzzled.  
                “May I help you?”  
“Angela Ziegler? I am Adofo Okoye. I have news regarding the attack.” He spoke with a German accent despite his clearly African name. She nodded.  
                “Let us speak outside.”

  
  
They made their way outside. A dim line of green tinged the horizon, and the ruins were now smoldering, steam and smoke still rising into the star strewn sky. Okoye spoke, his voice hurried and low.  
                “I work with the IIO. They have told me not to tell you this, but this was your hospital and you have a right to know who did this.” She looked at him. He did seem nervous, thought pressed on.  
                “We have reason to believe that the Australian terrorists Junkrat and Roadhog are behind the attack. You were keeping Omnics here?”  
                “Keeping? They have a right to be treated in their department.” She replied, crossing her arms.  
“Are you saying the attack was triggered by us aiding Omnics?” Okoye shook his head and shrugged.  
                “They live off of chaos. They have evaded all our efforts to capture them. An attack of this magnitude does seem like they could have had accomplices.” He lowered his voice still further, making Angela lean in to hear.

  
  
“As well… it could have been triggered by the recent recall. The entire world is up in arms.” He held out a hand. She glanced at it, he held something small in his palm. Reaching out her own, she took it.  
                “You were in Overwatch?” She asked, gazing at the little black and orange pin. He nodded.  
“Blackwatch, assigned to the International Intelligence Organization once it was shut down. All I can say is…” He glanced around at the wreckage.  
                “The world could use Overwatch again. Keep yourself safe, Dr. Zeigler.” He patted her on the shoulder. “The world needs you.” She handed him his pin back, and he pocketed it.  
  
“Thank you for the information. I will tell no one.” She inclined her head. The man smiled, his teeth shining in the darkness. He stepped into the shadows, and vanished. Angela stared at the spot he had been, before shaking her head.  
                Blackwatch agents. They never changed.  
  
Still, his words held merit. This was her base of operations. She had allowed Omnics to be worked on here; as well, why shouldn’t they? She was also an incredibly important member of Overwatch back in the day.  
  
If she was the target, why hadn’t they assassinated her outright? Was this attack meant to scare her? Make her run? She shook her head, reentering the tent. If it was, she wouldn’t fall prey to their tricks. They would stand her ground. People needed her, and she wasn’t about to run out on them.  
  
  
                 



	3. Cigars and Ciagrettes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree meets with an unsavory face on his way out of Arizona.

Chapter 3  
  
  


He didn’t remember waking up, only just being awake. His eyes were glued together with sleep, and as he sat up, he rubbed them with a fist, yawning. His room was dark, apart from the dusty stream of yellow sunlight peering through the moth-eaten curtains. He pouted, reaching for a cigar, lighting it with a flick of a lighter.  
   
The business he had come here for seems inconsequential to what was going on. After his shower, he had simply passed out on the bed. His last though before drifting into the comforting arms of sleep, was that he needed to figure out who was behind that attack, and make them pay.  
  
He sighed, standing up, kicking through his clothes. He’d fallen asleep completely naked, and now was forced to go through the trouble of finding his things. There was a small problem with his plan. A small problem he hadn’t thought of when running on lack of sleep and adreninline.  
  
He had no idea who was behind this. He had some ideas, of course, but nothing concrete. He couldn’t just run off without digging to the center of it. Besides, he was afraid of Angelas reaction if he suddenly just showed up. It could be either downright sexy, or extremely heartbreaking, and he just didn’t want to deal with it.  
  
He bundled up his clothes, threw them in his knapsack, and sat on the side of his bed, finishing his cigar. It was his last one; he was determined to enjoy it before going back to boring old cigarettes.   
  
  
                _“You know, I wish you wouldn’t smoke.” Angela tutted, ruffling his hair. Jesse grinned, taking a long drag of his cigarette._  
                “When it’s the only way you get breaks, you smoke, darlin’” He leaned back and squeezed her ass, earning him a light slap on the back of his head.  
                “Surely you’ve earned the right to take breaks whenever you choose.” She served him a thick platter of lasagna, dripping with cheese and sauce. His mouth watered; Angelas homecooking was a rare treat.  
                “You’ve think, but Reyes is a dictator.” She pulled the cigarette from his mouth, stubbing it out in the potted plant at the center of the table.  
                “Well, at least don’t smoke in my quarters. I hate the smell.”  
“I won’t smoke around you period, darlin.” She smiled, reaching out a hand and caressing his cheek. He leaned into her touch; it was soft, so soft. She was the most loving woman he had ever been with. He knew she was the only one for him the moment he laid eyes on her.  
                “Thank you, my Jesse.”

 

 

“My Jesse…” He murmured. He’d taken up cigar smoking after he left. It was a welcome break from cigarettes, and it broke the connection between cigarettes and Overwatch. He stood up, got dressed, and left the room.  
  
He was met with a familiar face in the lobby. He scowled, noticing purple hair, heavily modified body and a smirk.  
                “We meet again, Jesse McCree.” She wiggled her fingers at him from behind the ancient computer, which was flashing bright colors into her dark features.   
                “I didn’t fancy meeting you here, Sombra.” He instinctively reached for a cigar; only to realize he’d run out. He clenched his fists in his pocket instead.  
  
He only knew Sombra from reputation. She was a ruthless hacker, and had dirt on everyone. However…his spirited lightened some, the corners of his mouth twitching. She could be useful.  
  
“Oh, I was in the area…and I found out you were staying here.” She ran her hand along the top of the moniter.   
                “You know, I always find it hard to crack the codes of these ancient machines. They are so primitive.” She moved out from behind the PC; her hands on her hips, staring at McCree.  
                “You have something I need.” McCree raised his brows.  
“And what would that be?” He responded, keeping his tone level. Sombra was a dangerous woman to play with.  
                “Information. See, I have dirt on everyone. Everyone, and everything.” She approached him, her hands rising to create pictures out of thin air. He saw security footage of his time in Overwatch, though nothing with him in the frame.  
                “I have information on each Overwatch agent, except…” She flashed a grin, showing sharper than average canines.  
                “You.”  
  
“And what makes you think I’ll just hand it over? What do you want with anyways?” She closed down the screen. It was simply air between them now.  
                “I have information you need.” She threw her hands up, mocking a sense of disbelief.  
“What a shock, I thought, when I saw the news. A hospital full of people and…” She narrowed her eyes.  
                “Machines, blown to smitherines.”  
  
“Are you trying to tell me you know whose behind this?” McCree hooked his fingers in his belt, growing agitated. He was never one to beat around the bush.  
                “I do. How about we swap? A little information for some information.” She smirked at him again. McCree weighed his options. It was very doubtful she didn’t have a scrap of information on him. He asked her.  
                “How come you don’t have info on me? It isn’t exactly hard to come by.” His past had been logged the moment he’d been drafted into Overwatch.  
                “An associate of mine bummed the files.” Her smirk faded, replaced by a scowl.  
“You were one of the only names I couldn’t restore.”  
                “And, there isn’t anything else?”  
“You’re a mysterious man, McCree. I don’t even know your real name.” McCree grinned.  
  
“Well, for starters, lets just say that is my real name. What do you want to know?”  
                He’d decided his path. He’d take the risk; he didn’t know what she was compiling the data for, and didn’t honestly care. There was of course the chance she was lying, but he had to take that chance. He could find the right information on his own, if so.  
  
“Just a tiny little thing.” She pulled out a tiny little pad, lighting it up with a tap of her thumb, sending arrays of data flying to every corner of the room.  
                “You were a part of Blackwatch, yes?”  
“Yes…” He gritted his teeth.   
                “What did you do before? No one simply gets into Blackwatch.” Jesse looked around the room, but the only other soul in the room was a fly buzzing uselessly against the grimy glass window.  
 “Surely you know.”  
                “I think you know by now, McCree, that I don’t.” She smiled, but it lacked any mirth. Boy, he craved a cigar.  
                “Deadlocke Gang.” The name came out sour; reminding him of motor oil and degreaser, and he hated those scents.  
                “Oh, well, now isn’t that a development.” She winked, adding a thin line of code McCree couldn’t make out. He crossed his arms.  
                “You’re turn, buttercup.”  
“Don’t call me buttercup, amigo.” He simply stared, waiting.  
                “I’m not finished-.”  
“You said one thing. That was one thing. Now your turn to uphold your end of the bargain.” Sombra looked furious for a second at being outsmarted, but she smiled a second later.  
                “The organization that blew up the building goes by the name of Talon.” She raised a brow at his expression.  
                “You’ve heard of them?” McCree simply nodded. He had a close personal relationship with Talon; they had taken a lot from in the last couple years.   
                “Well, we both have what we needed. Won’t be seeing you.” He tipped his hat and strode out the door, leaving Sombra looking irritated and surprised.

 

  
He stepped out into the blinding sun, half expecting her to yell after him, but it was silent as he strode down the sidewalk. Cars drove past; grimy with sand from the previous sandstorm, and people walked by, carrying bags and purses, looking forlorn.  
  
A group was huddled around a store front, watching a new report open mouthed. He stopped a short distance away, half of him curious, and the other half still digesting the limited information he’d just learned. And given up.  
  
Why did she want to know about him? Was she telling the truth? Just compiling data? Or was it something more sinister. He chuckled, watching the television without really seeing it. It was always something big with Sombra; everything was part of a big grandiose plan.   
  
Talon, now that complicated matters. He steeled himself, and focused on what the group was so interested in.   
  
                “This is a live report from KDWB, live in Geneva, Switzerland with Rodger Morris. Rodger, whats the situation on ground zero?”  
  
The reporter looked uncomfortable.  
                “Well, Steven, the news isn’t good. Seventy-three confirmed deaths, and hundreds more injured. There are strong suspicions of the terrorist group Talon’s involvement. Other people claim it an act by the Australian Group Junkers. As of yet, we have no confirmed information as to who committed the act.”  
  
                “Rodger, can you tell me how everyone in the area is doing?”  
“Well, they’re in very good hands. Doctor Angela Zeigler survived the attack, as you all know, and is personally treating everyone.” McCree shook his head, stepping away from the television and into the road.  
  
Angie would kill herself, one of these days. She strived for perfection, and wouldn’t accept anything less. She probably felt she was personally responsible for the attack as well; just another reason why she would over work herself treating the injured.  
  
He crossed the street, keeping his head low, heading towards an old beaten down chop shop on the way out of town. He’d need a way to get around, mostly without drawing attention to himself. Dust puffed up under his feet, and residual sand from the last night’s storm sprinkled down on him from overhanging eaves. He stopped in a corner market, looking for cigars but coming out with cigarettes, before heading into a darkened alley way. He was comfortable with these areas; they were they places people such as himself did best.  
  
Darkness, dank. Cover. At the end, a rusting garbage bin hid a hole in the fence, which he ducked under, snagging his serape on the rough metal. Choking, he managed to turn around to free himself, only to be met with a pistol in his face.  
  
“Well, howdy to you too.” He smiled. The man on the other end of the gun was massive, big and bald, with a lovely scar that ran the length of his face. He glowered at him.  
                “Who’er you?” He growled.  
“Just someone in the market for a vehicle. Mind if I smoke?” He showed his empty hands. The man considered for a moment, the gears working hard under that thick skull. Finally, he stepped back, nodding.  
                “I’m watching you. Follow me.” McCree chuckled inwardly, lighting up a cigarette. The taste was bitter and lacking compared to his usual cigars. The back alley way opened to a large amphitheater like area. Part of it was covered by a ratty old tarp, and another was covered in junk and illegal materials. Here and there a man sat smoking or drinking. McCree took another drag, looking around. Underneath the tarp were sensitive materials of all sorts; engines, cars completely stripped of their parts.   
  
“You said you in a market for a vehicle? Talk to Buddy.”  
                “Buddy eh? Point him out.”  
“Skinny guy on under da’ tarp. Don’t try anythin’ funny.”  
                “I’m clean as a whistle, don’t worry.” He picked his way through myriad amount of parts. “Buddy” stopped polishing a chrome hubcap to look up at him. His eyes widened in surprise.  
                “Jesse McCree?” McCree took a step back, raising his hands.  
“I didn’t know we were acquainted. Do I know from somewhere?” The man walked out from under the tarp.  
                “No, but I know you. You helped my Pa with an issue awhile back. We’re all grateful.” Buddy was quite a skinny fellow, with long dirty blond locks that dove into his eyes. He couldn’t be more than eighteen.  
                “Well, glad to have been of service. I’m looking for a car, preferably a magnetized.” Buddy looked around.  
                “I suppose you can’t just rent one, eh?” He had a heavy backwoods accent. He reached up and scratched his forehead, leaving a smear of oil. McCree smirked, taking another drag.  
                “You got that right.” Buddy grinned, showing missing teeth.  
“I gotcha. Right this way.” He lead McCree under the tarp. Closer up, he could see barrels of spare parts, and crates filled with drugs.  
                “Pa left the family ‘business’ to me.” Buddy fiddled around with a keychain while speaking, fishing through the many keys.  
                “Said I had a knack. I’ve expanded the business to drugs.” McCree saw his face twitch in a smile. They approached an aged metal door, with rust that looked akin to a bad case of rash. Buddy opened it, leading him inside a large warehouse. This at least, looked modern. It was clean, well lit, and seemed to be where they kept their more expensive wares.  
  
“Since we owe ya, I’ll let you buy one half price.” McCree raised his brows. A part of him was rather suspicious, but the boy didn’t seem dangerous. He decided to clarify.  
                “I appreciate that. Remind me, whats your last name?”  
“Gorrigon. My Pa’s name is Greg.” That did ring a bell. He’d helped Gorrigon take care of some thugs that were threatening his business, along with his family. Since Greg only dealt in cars at the time, he didn’t see the problem with helping a fellow out, and he paid well.  
               

                “Glad to see the business is thriving. Now, which ones are for sale?” McCree clapped his hands.  
“All of em, and…what happened to your hand?” Buddy asked. McCree hid his mechanical arm under his serape, smiling serenely.  
                “Accident. Years ago.” He maneuvered in and out of the cars, running his good hand along the smooth exteriors. He needed something that wouldn’t draw any attention. Not too big or too small. Not too flashy. His eyes landed on a deep red sedan. She was a bit old; rust clung to her corners and she had dents, but everything about her was nondescript.  
                “I’ll take this number.” Buddy blanched.  
“You sure? We were about to strip it.”   
                “I ain’t looking for class or flash, Bud. Just something to get me from point A to point B. She works, right?”  
                “Sure, she works. I’ll let ya test it out.” Buddy exited the room into a tiny office, grabbed a key, and hurried over to McCree, who grabbed it.  
  
She worked perfectly. Air conditioned, floated perfectly above the ground with precision magnetism. Only problem was her radio didn’t seem to work, but that hardly mattered to McCree.  
                “I appreciate this.” He smiled at the boy, who grinned.  
“No, I appreciate you man. Take it easy.”  
                “You need any help in the future, you know who to call.” Buddys eyes lit up as he opened the warehouse door. Dull afternoon light streamed in, blinding him for a moment.   
                “I’ll be sure to remember that. See ya, McCree!”

“You know, I think I’ll name you Edna.” He patted the dash as he rolled out into the street proper. He’d been thinking of where to visit first once he got a car, and knew just the person to pay a visit too. He smirked as he headed out on the Interstate, tapping ash out of his window.  
  
“Let’s just hope you’re innocent, old friend…”

 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate the way it ruins my formatting. My text looks so pretty and Ao3 ruins it :C


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